Dear Middle School Me:

First of all, you are killing it in that hand-me-down Hollister t-shirt and jean skirt. That choker you have around your neck? Don’t take it off. It’s the perfect addition to any outfit, and will never go out of style. Same goes for every single one of your friendship, gimp, slap, and soda cap bracelets. Your braces also look *fabulous* per usual, yellow was definitely a great band color. You are rocking the middle part way before it will become cool; you were such a trendsetter back in the day. Your extensive collection of multi-colored-multi-patterned spandex to go under your ribbon shorts is the stuff of legends. Everyone is definitely jealous.

That boy who you matched with in M.A.S.H? He’s definitely your soulmate, you two are going to be married, have three kids, and live in Los Angeles. Unless your cootie catcher has you two living in Beverly Hills—in which case, you will obviously live in Beverly Hills because if there’s anything Weezer taught you, it’s that “Beverly Hills—that’s where I wanna be.” Nothing beat blasting that as loud as physically possible in Mom’s minivan on the way to soccer practice. Backstreet Boys, blink-182, Simple Plan…you know all the lyrics, and nothing is harder than trying to pick which one to set as your away status at the end of the day (“hey now, ur an all-star…brb soccer” or the more cryptic “i’m just a kid + lyfe is a nIgHtMaRe”?) These are the questions that haunt you at night.

Middle school me, remembering you is not easy, enjoyable, or particularly fun. You were such an awkward human being; I am still embarrassed for you. Every uncomfortable social interaction (read: every social interaction) still makes me outwardly cringe. The memory of you at your first dance—standing in the corner, arms folded and squeezing the free bottle of water, as if by that pressure you could somehow crush between your painted fingernails the feelings of anxiety that inevitably arise when you make your way to the dance floor—is almost too much for me to bear. Seeing your school picture from seventh grade—the one where Mom made you wear that horrible dress that looked like it was from the 1800s, and insisted you looked “so cute,” which you almost believed until you waltzed into school ready to be showered with compliments and everyone made fun of it—still gives me severe second-hand embarrassment. Or the time that you sweat through your grey gym shirt and had to wear those wet stains like a scarlet letter for the rest of the day. Or the time you laughed and milk came out your nose and landed all over your crush’s lunch. Or the time you fell while demonstrating how to do a perfect ballet move and everyone definitely saw your underwear. I am getting sick to my stomach.

Middle school me, you taught me to be strong, resilient, and eventually, self-confident. I survived middle school, and came out only partially scathed. Emotionally traumatized, but definitely alive, I am a better person having survived you—middle school me, you showed me that it is possible to bounce back from rock bottom. I thank you.

-Your Mildly Less Embarrassing College Self

PS: My new mantra: if you made it through middle school, you can make it through anything.